


Hetalia Aphabet fics

by bunnyfication



Series: alphabet prompt fics [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, F/M, Food, Gen, Historical, Ice Cream, M/M, Other, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyfication/pseuds/bunnyfication
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several fics of varying length that I did for an alphabet meme (that I almost finished, even. Got up to W)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. D - Dream: Sweden/Denmark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sex, albeit with minimal description, improper use of sanctified substance, or possibly just Denmark messing with Sweden's head. You may be the judge of that.

The castle was frigid in the night, despite all the work done to keep it warm. Under the covers, though, it was reasonably warm, especially with Finland there as well. He was sleeping soundly, head almost entirely hidden under the thick covers. It was still novel, having someone else in his bed, Sweden thought. Maybe that was what was keeping him awake.

He'd just started to fall asleep at last when he heard the door creaking open, and the soft footsteps on the floor.

"Hey, don't bother getting up," A soft, low voice said from the darkness, and Sweden froze where he'd just been about to sit up.

"D'nmark? What're ya--"

Except before he could finish the sentence, there was a shock of cold as the other man crawled under the covers. His hands and feet were cold too, as he'd apparently walked over to the room in only his shirt. With a flash of shame on behalf of the man, Sweden hoped no one had seen him. Thought he supposed Denmark wouldn't care either way.

"Wh't," he mumbled, but the other just shushed him, a warm puff of air against his neck.

"Why do you think I visited so soon after the treaty and in this wretched time of year too? See, it was so...official back in Kalmar, there was no time to--" Denmark licked the back of his neck, and while Sweden was still reeling over that, the other's teeth closed on his ear, gently enough to make him shiver. "--talk." he concluded, with a snicker.

"Talk?" Sweden asked, louder than he meant, and Finland made a small noise in his sleep, turning to his other side.

"Don't wake him up," Denmark whispered, and Sweden went still. He didn't want to, Finland had looked tired that evening, after the feast they'd had to kick up for Denmark's surprise visit.

Besides it wasn't so bad, now that Denmark was warming up. Sweden's back had been a bit cold before anyways. Except.

"Oy, D'nmark,"

"Mm?"

"Where're ya putting yer h'nds?"

Denmark just laughed, almost soundlessly, puffs of breath that sent shivers down Sweden's spine which had nothing to do with being cold.

"What do you think?"

"H'...stop 't"

Denmark was pouting. Sweden knew because he could feel his lips against his neck.

"Don't be so stingy, you'll like it," he whispered, but he did pull his hands out of Sweden's trousers and back on his stomach. Which he kept stroking, rough fingers straying lower and lower...damn it.

"..."

"Changed your mind, did you?"

Sweden considered throwing him out of the bed, but that would mean exposing himself to the cold air. And probably waking up Finland in the process. So in the end he just sighed.

"Wh'tever,"

"Good!" Denmark said brightly, though still quietly.

He kept whispering in Sweden's ear, about the future, how it would be with all of them together. forever, like the treaty said. Somehow, that was almost as good as what his hands were doing, the promise of family, of always having someone at one's back.

Even if forever might only mean until the death of the current ruler, those words had a strange power over Sweden. They warmed some place so deeply frozen it had gone numb, and stoked the flames of desire to burn brighter.

"'s that...really?" Sweden asked, though it was already difficult to string the words together in any coherent fashion.

"Why not?" Denmark answered blithely, but he sounded distracted and breathless. "Now, turn over, I have something..."

"Here? Now?" Sweden asked, disbelieving, but the hand pressing on his back told the Dane was serious. Sweden glanced at Finland, but he seemed to be still asleep, snoring softly.

"If he was going to wake up he would have already," Denmark murmured urgently. "It's no wonder he hasn't, the way the little guy drank at dinner..."

And Sweden recalled, now, that it had been Denmark who'd kept filling his glass, smiling genially, as if he were the host and not the inconvenient visitor.

There was a scent in the air suddenly, rich and peculiarly familiar. Sweden's eyes widened in surprise.

"Wait, ya didn't nick that from t' churc...hn!"

"Secret," Denmark whispered, having used Sweden's distraction to his advantage. He had clever fingers for a warrior, using them to drive away Sweden's reason, while holding his wrists down to the mattress. Not to keep him there, since escape was far from Sweden's mind, but the hold felt more like an anchor.

"It might be just a treaty now, but one day it'll be a proper union, and then we can keep the others safe," Denmark said urgently, and Sweden couldn't help the moan rising out from his throat.

"D-dreamer," he said, not sure anymore whether it was an accusation or something else entirely, and Denmark laughed again, but when he spoke next it was almost a plea.

"Say yes."

But by then, Sweden was beyond words, beyond remembering what the question had been, for that matter. Perhaps it didn't even matter, because Denmark didn't wait for the answer either.

*

Afterwards, when Sweden had had enough time to catch his breath and start feeling awkward, Denmark disentangled from him, but only long enough to curl around him more comfortably, like a particularly bony and sticky blanket.

"No complaints, right?" he said cheerfully.

Sweden didn't bother answering, since it was hardly a question.

"'m tired," he mumbled instead, and Denmark snickered.

"Of course."

There was really no reason for him to sound so smug about it. And apparently he had no intentions of leaving either. Only sensible, Sweden supposed, couldn't be healthy to sneak around half dressed in a castle during winter. He'd have to wake the fool before morning and give him one of the fur capes to wear...but right now Sweden wanted to sleep, so it would have to wait.

Just as long as it was before Finland woke up...

*

When the breathing of the other two finally slowed down to the cadence of sleep, Finland rolled onto his back and stared up into the dark.

Drink or no drink (and really, that watered down stuff was hardly even alcohol), he'd been asleep, not dead

Oh well, it had been sort of hot.


	2. E - Elephant: Hungary/Prussia(/Austria + Piano)

The lights are low, glinting on the glass Elizaveta is holding. It's almost empty, and she moves around the remaining liquid thoughtfully, before downing it in one swallow. She leans her head back, lips red around the glass and throat white, where Gilbert can see it above the stiff white collar.

She looks over to him, one eyebrow raised, and smiles. On someone else he'd call it a leer. 'What are you looking at' she could ask, but Elizaveta knows.

She gets up and walks across the floor, her figure clothed by sharp black and white, but her movements fluid, swinging to the tune of the piano. Gilbert expects she's coming for the crystal pitcher on the table beside him, filled with alcohol it's too fine for, but Elizaveta just puts her empty glass on it, and straighten up. She holds out a hand, still smiling that little sideways grin.

"Shall we dance?" she asks when he doesn't get it, and Gilbert shrugs.

He's not very good at dancing, but he reckons Elizaveta won't mind. She leads, and he might care if that didn't actually make it easier, and he weren't feeling too lazy to protest.

They swirl around for a bit, and eventually fetch against the body of the piano, Gilbert pressing Elizaveta against the wood to kiss her. The music stutters, one discordant note breaking the harmony, and then flows on, wrapping around them. It's something modern, a mellow version of some popular tune, and Gilbert wonders with half a thought where the aristocrat learned to play something like that.

"The suit looks good on you, but I'm thinking...you'd look better without it," Gilbert tells Elizaveta, and she laughs, throwing her head back. He takes the opportunity to kiss her neck above that collar, which will have to go soon.

"That sounds like something France would say. Suave doesn't suit you," she tells him, and Gilbert leers at her.

"Oh, so you'd prefer--" and he whispers the rest, but loud enough for the piano player to hear. He's rewarded by another hitch in the music, and he and Elizaveta share a look of conspirators.

"Yes, much better," she purrs, green eyes gleaming in the low light of the lamp nearby, and it's Gilbert's turn to laugh.

"Say, Elizaveta, what was it like to be a proper lady, do you remember?"

She shrugs, and wraps her arms around him a bit tighter.

"You know the thing about pink elephants? It's a bit like that. Really thought, you should ask someone else..."

"Because you weren't ever very good at it?" Gilbert continues for her. "Oh really?"

Elizaveta's eyes glint a bit differently at that, challenged by the soft mockery, which was what Gilbert intended all along.

He has learned long ago that sometimes the punishment and reward are the same thing, and as Elizaveta kisses him like she owns him... he decides this is one of those times.

*


	3. D - Dream: Sweden/Denmark

Feliciano's voice is muffled; most probably he's holding his new cell phone upside down again. Nevertheless, his words are more than clear enough. He has a tendency to shout when he's excited over something.

"Actually I--" Ludwig starts to say, but Feliciano speak over him.

"Ok, I'll see you then!" he says cheerfully and closes the phone.

Ludwig sighs, giving a dark look at his quiet phone, and a considering one at the pile of papers on his table. He has work to do, nothing particularly pressing, but it won't do itself. On the other hand, Feliciano _will_ be expecting him. And will pout if he doesn't come. It's probably not even anything important, and Ludwig wasn't even given a chance to say no.

He isn't particularly surprised to find himself in Italy a few hours later.

"There you are," Italy chirps, and immediately starts dragging him away somewhere, barely letting Ludwig drop his suitcases in the foyer. He hopes Lovino doesn't happen to find them while they're away, it wouldn't be the first time he's thrown Ludwig's luggage in the canal. Or worse, but he'd rather not remember that.

"So, where are we going?" Ludwig asks, feeling a bit vexed from all this running about.

"Heh, you'll see...ah, here we are!" It a gelato shop, a small one.

Feliciano beams, while Ludwig just looks from him to the shop, not particularly impressed. Still, as long as he's here anyway, he might as well taste the product as Feliciano insists.

The latter keeps staring at him as he eats, an expectant expression on his face. He even seems to have forgotten his own dessert, his spoon hanging limply in one hand. It's making Ludwig feel self-conscious. Sure it IS excellent gelato, but what is he expecting?

"...what?" he asks at last.

Feliciano tilts his head.

"Doesn't it taste familiar?" he asks.

And now that Feliciano said that, there is something...

"Milan," he says at last "in...1937?"

Feliciano shrugs, that dreamy little smile still on his face that makes him look both happy and sad at the same time.

"It's almost as good, isn't it?" Feliciano says, and then laughs a little "Though I suppose it helped it was so hot that day, and we were both hungry...but the taste is the same.

He finally remembers to take a spoonful of his own gelato.

"Was that really the best gelato you've ever eaten, back then?" Ludwig asks, staring at his plate instead of Feliciano. He thinks that particular shop...it probably didn't survive the bombings and the occupation.

Feliciano shrugs, that faraway look in his eyes again.

"Best I've had with you," he says, and seems to return back to this time and moment again. "Worth the travel, isn't it?" he says cheerfully.

Ludwig could say a lot to that, but in the end he just nods. Arguing with Feliciano tends to be useless, and somehow he doesn't even feel like it right then.

*  
*  
*  
~  
 **Omake**

"Oh, they serve pasta here! I didn't expect...huh?"

Feliciano's expression is a picture of confusion, as he jabs his spoon at what _appears_ to be a plate of spaghetti, but isn't. Then he gives Ludwig a long look, and finally sighs, sounding put upon.

["You Germans have a weird sense of humour,"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaghettieis) Feliciano mumbles as he digs into his ice scream.


	4. I - Insomnia: Finland/Sweden

One of the stone steps leading down from Finland's summer cottage was loose. Berwald stepped over it carefully as he walked the short distance to the lakeshore. Finland had a tendency to forget the loose stone and stumble over it, which caused a lot of cursing and an oath to fix it in place...tomorrow. Which oath he would have always conveniently forgotten by said tomorrow, of course. So in the end everyone who visited frequently had simply learned to avoid the step. They called it "The Trap," jokingly.

He hadn't seen the clock in the dark cabin, so Sweden only had a vague idea of the time, except that it was late at night. Or morning, perhaps. The sky on the other side of the lake was a pale yellowish red, and the trees looked inky black against it. It was as dark as it got, at this time of the summer. Tendrils of fog floated over the water, coming from somewhere at the left and dispersing to the right.

Finland himself was sitting on the floating pier. His feet hung over the edge, toes just barely touching the water. He didn't turn to look as Sweden stepped onto the planks, even though he must have noticed, from the way the pier swayed under Sweden's feet.

"Sorry if I woke you up," Finland said, glancing at Sweden from the corner of one eye when he joined him at the edge of the floating structure. Then his gaze flickered back towards the lake again.

Sweden looked at his profile. Finland looked...unsettled, tense. His blue eyes were dark and distant in the night, staring blankly towards far shore. His feet in the water kept moving slightly as if to some unheard music, breaking the stillness of the surface and creating tiny broadening circles. And even as still as he was otherwise, Sweden could sense a nervous energy underneath it, as if Finland was ready to jump up at any moment.

"Ever'thing ok?" Sweden asked.

Finland turned towards him with a quick smile, shaking his head.

"Nothing! Well, nothing...unusual," at the last his expressive face turned pensive again. "Just the usual, you know. America and Russia acting like two...idiots."

He gestured to the scene before them.

"I...I hate thinking we could lose everything, anytime, and all because those two can't keep it in their pants. But there's nothing I can do, is there?" He finished darkly.

"See," Sweden said. So that was why he'd been so stressed lately.

He shifted to a different position. The planks were a bit hard to sit on, what with...

"Oh," Finland said, and when Sweden gave him a quizzical look, he blushed, looking suddenly coy. It was funny how that expression still looked so natural on him, considering everything.

"Um, I didn't...I mean, you're ok too? Wasn't too rough?" Finland asked, with an abashed little smile.

"'s fine," Sweden mumbled.

He only ever seemed to worry about that afterwards, but that was fine. Not like he'd ever actually hurt him, not really. Not in bed.

"That's good," Finland said lightly. Then he smiled impishly and inched closer, so he could put his arms around Sweden and bend him down into a kiss, light and gentle this time. Nice, but Sweden couldn't help noticing...

He leaned back and frowned.

"T'no?"

"Yes?"

Finland blinked at him with the particular innocent look that meant he knew he'd been caught, and also knew that Sweden couldn't really make himself be upset at him.

"Thought we agreed n' booze?"

More of the innocent eyes, except then they crinkled up in amusement.

"It's only a bottle...or two. And before you ask, I've hidden them and won't say where...unless you'd like to share?"

It turned out the hiding place was in the lake under the pier and hanging from a cord.

"Yer hopeless, F'nland," Sweden said, not unfondly, and Finland grinned at him. He'd probably had fun hiding the things, which he verified, by saying:

"Remember the prohibition? A pain in the ass, but it sure was exciting sometimes, wasn't it?"

Sweden just shook his head.

"If ya say so."


	5. J - Juniper: implied Finland/Russia

"--and then he said he'd be right back, but wasn't," Russia concluded.

Sweden gave him a long look, noting how the other man was rubbing at his wrists, which had slight red marks on them. He kinda hoped Finland wouldn't get in trouble for... forgetting to untie him from the bed. When he, according to Russia, went to get more vodka.

On second though, perhaps he deserved all he was getting.

"Sure he j'st forgot...but lucky I happ'ned along," he mumbled.

Russia shrugged cheerfully.

"Is fine. People forget things. Sometimes I forget too," he said, and gave out a small laugh.

"I could call him," Sweden said quickly, just so Russia would stop laughing.

He took out his cellphone, and after a few calls, was answered...

"Hey! Denmark speaking!"

"D'nmark, why'd ya have Finland's phone?"

"What? I can't hear you, it's so noisy in here!"

Sweden could hear that. He could also hear Denmark all too well, so he repeated his question in a louder volume, and then held the phone further from his ear.

"Oh, that! I met him and then we went to this place and...GO FINLAND! What? Naaw, he was just singing. But then this guy didn't like the song and--"

Sweden closed the phone decisively.

Russia blinked at him from the other side of the table.

"Everything fine?"

"Yes, b't Finland might take a while."

"Something happen?"

Sweden shrugged.

"D'nmark," he said. It was a short explanation, but Russia nodded understandingly.

"I see...where do we go now?" He asked Sweden who'd gone to get something from the bag forgotten at the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw it was distinctly bottle shaped.

"Present, but since F'nland's not here...we can open it. Has juniper b'rries in 't," Sweden explained matter of factly.

Russia smiled.

"Wonderful!"

*

Slightly later, Sweden looked up from his glass, finally having drunk gathered enough courage to ask.

"What's w'th t' uniform then?"

Russia looked down at his WW2 era uniform, as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it. Sweden tried not to think of how much Russia hadn't been wearing it when Sweden had first seem him that day.

"This? Finland says, he likes historical re-enactment."

Then he frowned slightly, as if puzzled.

"But then he also says it is boring to repeat things, so it should be different this time. Odd little guy, is Finland."

"Toast on th't," Sweden said.


	6. K - Kiss: China/Korea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Haa... semi-incest, drug use... set in Opium Wars era so that probably requires a warning by itself. Nasty stuff, albeit all on the level of vague implication as far as the fic goes. Angst. And, nothing actually goes further than kissing between characters present.

There is a woman with two young children pushing a cart piled high with cabbages. The younger child is nestled in a sling against her chest, his dark eyes blank in the way of small babies when they are perfectly content. The elder, barely more than a toddler either, is hanging onto his mother's sleeve with one pudgy hand, clearly complaining though his voice is lost in the sounds of the busy street. The mother frowns and pushes hair out of her eyes, the strands sticking to her damp forehead. Eventually she raises the older child onto the cart, visibly straining as she pushes it onwards with the added weight. The child, clearly unaware of his mother's exertions, smiles and swings his feet, his entire face lighting up. His mother's worn face softens into a fond smile as well, despite her straining arms and back.

Korea, standing in the shadow of a shop front on the other side of the street smiles, with what is for him a rare wistful quality. He stands there long until the woman with the cart has passed, watching the people going by idly. But eventually his eyes grow blank, looking into somewhere further in the distance...in the future or the past, it's impossible to say.

Eventually he slips away, shooed off by the elderly man owning the shop, giving him a distracted, apologetic smile, while the man mutters something about foolish foreigners. "Joseon! Can't you act less childishly... and what sort of writing is that supposed to be!" Korea remembers suddenly, his smile dimming once again. Why is it that everything here reminds him of the past...and why is that the past suddenly seems so much better by comparison?

To think that once he would have been in a hurry to meet his "older brother", even if he only got yelled at for his behavior in general, or the latest mischief in particular. Not that he’d been especially happy about that then, but compared to how things are now…

Inevitably he reaches his destination, a house with a decorative but faded facade. There is a dragon design above the doorway, delicately carved, but the gilt on it has chipped away, and one of its heads has cleaved off.

Once, there might have been guard on the way there, people ready to inquire his business. Now, there had been no one.

“England?” a thready, weak voice inquires, and Korea stops, hand still on the heavy curtain separating him from the outside. The air inside is thick with sickly sweet smoke, and he tells himself that’s the reason his eyes water suddenly. He takes slow, reluctant steps further, stopping before a screen that’s pulled haphazardly across the room, like someone has dragged it there in an attempt to wall themselves into a corner.

“No, it’s just me,” Korea says, but it’s quiet, too quiet.

A thin hand, white as a lily root, appears from behind the screen, pushing it aside, and then China peers out warily. His eyes squint at Korea, as if he can’t really see him. Probably can’t, with his pupils shrunk to pinpricks even in the gloomy interior of the room.

He curls up in on himself, fingers clutching the edge of the screen like a claw, and shakes his head, dark hair falling over his shoulder in damp, matted strings.

“Go away,” he whispers, voice hoarse like he’s been screaming, just recently, “It hurts… haven’t you had enough?”

Korea wonders, with a sudden cold weight in his stomach, if he can smell the coppery tang of blood under the sweet smell of opium permeating the house, and kneels on the floor, taking hold of one clammy hand.

“China, what… what has he done now? You have to tell me… brother!”

He’d looked better, last time, delirious perhaps, and with a glow that was more fever than health, but now China’s cheeks are sunken and he’s paler than Korea has ever seen him, even in these awful times. He’s afraid, suddenly, of losing what little he has left of him. Damn that cheating demon with the poison green eyes. All this for mere revenue, for more power…

China blinks at him, suddenly looking more tired than wary, and slumps to the pallet on the floor, but his body remains tense, strung up with pain. Still, he manages a smile, gentle and almost confused.

“Oh, it’s you… I… let’s not talk about that, it’s not important,” China lies, his face blank for a moment, and then his eyes flicker to the side, tongue peeking out to lick at cracked lips. “Could you… could you bring me my pipe?”

Korea shakes his head wordlessly, and China’s eyes turn pleading, desperate, and he cannot watch it. Cannot do anything but comply. Cannot help but watch as his hands curl around the narrow pipe, and how eagerly he breathes in the poison in it. It makes him sick, and yet he listens to China’s sigh of pleasure at the first rush, and there is a warm tingle in his own stomach, making his face burn in shame, because his brother is killing himself, and yet he… yet he cannot help wanting him, even like this.

“Korea…”

Called, he leans closer, and a thin hand threads in his hair, pressing against the back of his neck. He complies to that pull as if be-spelled to do so, not really understanding what’s happening until their lips are actually touching, moving against each other. China’s feel as chapped as they look, almost scraping against Korea’s, and he tastes of stale smoke, but Korea hardly cares. No, that is a lie, he does care, he just can’t bring himself to stop it, not when he’s been wanting this so long, decades, centuries, longer.

The moan that rises from his throat as he pushes China’s robes open is almost like a sob, but China doesn’t seem to notice, merely pressing closer, languid arms curling around him.

“Good, so good,” he mumbles dreamily, eyes drifting closed in pleasure.

“W-Why now?” Korea manages to ask, hands still bunched up in heavy silk, and China’s eyes open, blank and faintly puzzled.

“Does it matter?” he says eventually, and Korea realizes with dawning horror there is no recognition in that blank gaze. And that, finally, gives him the strength of will to pull back, because this is not them, this is not China kissing him, just the nearest warm body.

He presses his sleeves against his face, like he did as a child when he still believed if he couldn’t see something bad it would just go away, stop existing. Because China had told him that was what happened to the monsters under the floor, or lurking outside the screen wall. And after he’d left, Japan had stared into the darkness with his blank eyes, and whispered that it wasn’t that easy, but Korea hadn’t listened to him.

There is a long silence, and then a hand touches his sleeve, pulling at his hands until he lowers them, to see China looking at him. This time, he looks merely drowsy and calm, and in the dark it’s almost like it was, a long long time ago when Korea was very small and crawled into his bed in the night and China wouldn’t get mad in the morning, just brush at his hair and smile.

“Is something wrong, Goryeo? You’re crying… did you skin your knee again?” China asks sleepily, and Korea shakes his head, gathering him up against his chest and pressing his face against unwashed hair.

“No, I’ve lost something,” he whispers, and China pats him on the back weakly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you look for it…in the morning, it’s too dark to find anything now.”

Korea just closes his eyes against more tears, and holds him until he grows quiet again.

*


	7. R - Reassurance: France/Russia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Return of the evil fade to black

The elevator set off smoothly, the clicks of machinery drowned under hushed exclamations in a bouquet of languages, with the familiar French on the foreground. There were not too many tourists out at that early hour, on such a cold, blustery day, but the small elevator was still full.

As they climbed higher, Paris sprawled underneath, the scenery crisscrossed by the iron latticework of the tower. First floor, second floor...the higher they were, the more the city looked like an open heart, the streets the living veins, and he hid a smile behind his hand.

At the top, the wind hit at a gale, freezing after the warm elevator. It ruffled his golden hair like a rough, cool hand. The cityscape below was veiled by low hanging clouds, fading out entirely in the horizon like an old drawing. It was still beautiful, his city, and the murmurs of amazement gave him a small thrill, as always. Of course, tourists will exclaim over just about anything. It was still intoxicating, if in a faintly nauseating way, like drinking cheap wine.

One figure was still and quiet thought. A tall man, staring out into the hidden horizon, the fingers of one hand curled into the netting covering the view area. His clothes were old and worn, hanging on the man's frame as if he has lost weight recently.

He was hunched over slightly, as if to stall the cold, but he didn’t shiver as the wind picked at him, tugging at his blond hair and the equally pale scarf around his neck. If one looked closely, it looked positively ancient, the sturdy woolen fabric torn and repaired with care again and again, the colour faded and stained and faded towards white again.

Perhaps, it was once truly white, the colour of purity, but if so it was a long time ago. Francis remembers a time when that scarf was faintly pink from bloodstains that never quite washed away.

Now it's faded beige. The colour of old bones. And the man wearing it seems faded too, as if the sun, were it any brighter, might shine right through him.

Francis surveyed his visitor, head tilted appraisingly. Then he stepped closer, smooth confident steps, sidling close enough to be heard over the howl of the wind.

"Why, Ivan, if you wanted to look at me in all my glory... all you had to do was ask."

Ivan glanced at him, his eyes registering no surprise. They registered little of anything, seeming to have pulled the grey vista he was gazing at into them.

“It is fine. I did not want to bother you,” he said, in that deceptively soft voice. It was quieter than usual, and slightly hoarse. Broken.

“I had nothing else to do,” France said lightly. Then he shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. “It’s cold...why don’t we go inside?”

Russia's gaze wandered away again, and his lips curved into a small, cheerless smile.

"Is it? I did not notice."

France wondered idly what made Ivan come here, of all places. Certainly they were hardly worst enemies, but not the closest friends either...once, perhaps, they had been both, but only fleetingly, in the grand scheme of things. And that was a long time ago.

Perhaps that was why.

He wrapped a brotherly arm around the taller man, patting him (almost equally brotherly). He really was too thin.

"You might not, but I do. As beautiful as the view is... let us go now, yes?"

Ivan made no protest as France led him away, into the elevator and eventually along the streets towards his apartment. After a moment's hesitation, he led them to one of the smaller ones, a small attic apartment that would have made a poor artist from 1800s feel right at home...with the exception of it having proper insulation and heating, because there was bohemian, and there was simply uncomfortable.

Still, it had a certain old-fashioned charm, and it was handy for taking those dates who would not be impressed by his more spacious apartments. And most importantly, it was cozy.

When they entered, Francis directed Ivan to an artistically aged sofa, and set to making something to eat, from the resources he had stocked in the fridge. Nothing fancy, but he could work something edible (at the very least, though France prided himself on not being satisfied with the very least when he didn't have to) from almost anything.

Ivan ate the soup he made, with some quiet polite remark about how good it was, and then continued to sit on the sofa, letting France do most of the talking. Occasionally he blinked.

It was amazing really, how someone that big could seem so small, Francis though while he let his mouth run on autopilot. He's seen Canada do the same, of course, if not quite so effectively...and then he remembered the last time he'd seen Soviet Russia, tall and smiling, but now he thought about it, that smile had really been rather hard around the edges, brittle.

Ah, but of course.

"You seem tired...perhaps we should sleep?" Francis asked, with a smooth gentleness.

Ivan blinked at him, with that neutral look he'd had all evening.

"Why not," he replied.

The smaller room Francis used as a bedroom had a large, sloping window above the bed. It was towards the west, so in the evenings one could watch the sun sink behind the maze of rooftops, chimneys and antennas, throwing them into dark relief. Now though, sun had sunk long ago, and the sky was a murky dark orange, low clouds reflecting the lights of the city.

There was only the one bed, but it was more than wide enough for two, and Francis saw no need for either of them to sleep on the sofa.

"It's a pity," Russia said quietly, as they lay on it.

"Hmm?"

"The stars... they must be pretty, without the clouds."

"Yes... well, you couldn't see too many anyway, with the city lights."

"Ah," Ivan says, and is quiet for a long time. Francis has almost fallen asleep when he speaks again.

"When I was very young, I'd often look at the stars. I though... they looked very cold, but still, at least they had many friends...but in reality, science tells us, they're all suns, light years away from each other. Sad, isn't it?"

"Sad?" Francis asked sleepily.

"Yes. And do you know how they die, stars?"

Francis made a faint inquisitive sound. And Ivan continued speaking, in that same quiet tone, as if he were telling a story to a child.

"Large stars don't live as long, because they burn faster, consuming all their fuel until they grow cold and bloated, the, ah, Red Giants, they're called." Francis isn't sure, but he thinks he can detect a hint of irony in Ivan's voice there. "And then, if it is a truly great star, it will collapse within itself, sucking in and destroying all around it, to spew it out to something unknown...perhaps another universe, who knows? But a smaller star, it will only flash once more, and then grow cool and small..."

That soft, neutral voice followed Francis into his sleep.

He dreamed of drifting up in black space, stars burning around him like candles at a vigil as he drifted slowly downwards, towards a glittering ball of white. It grew as he approached it, and eventually he settled down on a plain. The landing was as soft as the fall had been, the snow fluffy like feathers.

He might have been cold, but only distantly. When he turned his head, he saw there were boot marks around him, and a carriage had driven past too, leaving deep tracks in the mud. But the mud had frozen since then, casting the marks as if in stone, and powdery snow had been swept into the grooves. It was creeping in, smoothing the landscape over. Soon there would be no mark anyone had passed here.

How neat, France thought, and the thought too was distant, belonging to someone else as much as the cold did. He was quite comfortable, as comfortable as the man sleeping a few metres away from him, his face turned away as if to a pillow.

He turned his head in the other direction, and saw another man approaching. Dressed in white, it was as if the landscape had born him. As he grew closer and stopped, France looked up into a pale face and pale hair... why, even his eyes appeared frosted over.

The man smiled, shaking his head. The smile didn't reach his eyes, not quite.

"You cannot sleep here," he said.

France shook his head, or would have if he could have found the strength. He was tired, and the cold was...not gone, but far away.

Disregarding his wishes, the pale man reached down for him, and as his hands touched, France, he burned, without being able to say if it was with cold or warmth, and he cried out.

"Hush," the man whispered, tonelessly.

Francis woke, disoriented for a moment. He looked up at Ivan, who was clutching at a hand as if he'd just burned it. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were widened, like a child who is not sure if they should look surprised or guilty.

"You were sleeping, and looked troubled. I just thought to..." Ivan looked down at his hand, frowning minutely.

Francis sat up, stretching languidly, before giving a slightly more awake look at Ivan.

"Don't worry. It was merely a strange dream," he said.

"Ah," Ivan replied, his face lowered towards the quilt.

On an impulse, Francis reached out, taking a hold of his chin and gently nudging his face up, so he could meet those pale violet eyes. Ivan...he could look so young, with those round, childish features. But they were about the same age, or old enough it no longer mattered.

"Poor thing. So beautiful, and so dangerous to approach," he crooned, voice morning-rough, and Ivan closed his eyes as Francis's fingers brushed along his jaw, like a petted cat. "It is not easy, is it, being the older brother, trying to hold on to the world..."

He flinched, and Francis gathered him closer, trying to soothe away the pain his words caused.

"--and it hurts to lose that hold, I know. It'll fade, in time...you know that, you've been there too, haven't you?"

Ivan shook his head, eyes still tightly closed.

"No more," he whispers, almost no more than a movement of lips, and then again, stronger. "No more talk."

And then there isn't.

They lie still, later, covers kicked away and legs tangled together. If Ivan's hands are a bit too cool still, Francis hardly minds, warm as he is from their recent exertions. The sky visible from the window above is a pale, tentative blue, with tattered clouds streaking it. Not quite sunny, but it doesn't look like rain either.

That's good enough, for now.

*


	8. T - Turtles: Austria/Hungary/Prussia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rampant domesticity

Hungary wakes up slowly. It's warm under the sheets but not too warm. She stretches her arms sleepily, just so she can settle back into the bed more comfortable afterwards and wonders why it feels so unusual. Probably because it is, she decides, both amused and slightly appalled at the realization that she has gotten used to waking up because Austria is hogging the covers or because Prussia has kicked her in his sleep (she'd tried kicking him off the bed the first few times, but the almighty fuss he made over it wasn't really worth the satisfaction in the long run) or any number of other annoyments.

Eventually, her curiosity overpowers her laziness, and Hungary pads over to the kitchen. She has a faint hope to find that her men have left the bed so as not to wake her up while they make out... but she's not that surprised to find only Austria in the kitchen, wearing an adorably old fashioned dressing gown and reading the newspaper. After all, they knew she liked nothing better than waking up to two handsome guys making out in the same bed and besides, Prussia had had that edgy, manic edge the previous evening, the one that usually spelled mischief.

"So I guess we didn't quite wear him out then," Hungary remarked half to herself as she settled at the table. Austria glanced up at her briefly, only murmuring a good morning in reply. He still had certain inhibitions about speaking of those sorts of things in broad daylight, less, Hungary suspected, out of habit rather than any real moral objection. Besides, he'd always been one for keeping up appearances when all else failed.

From outside, there's a crow of a rooster, followed by cackling noises from the chickens.

"I hope he fed them before he left, those things become downright vicious otherwise..." Hungary said, giving an apprehensive glance towards the window.

"Ah... I did earlier," Austria replies, turning a page on his paper.

Hungary stares at him a moment.

"What?"

"You really fed the chickens? You?"

Austria gives her an affronted look.

"As you said, the animals become... agitated otherwise. Besides, I'd appreciate if you didn't feel any obligation to make remarks like that while he's not present to do so," Austria said calmly, with a perfectly straight face. It was only once he went back to reading the newspaper that a smug little smile he got when he'd just made a joke rose on his face.

Hungary snickered, about to say something else when the phone rang. They both blinked and waited a moment to see if the person at the other end would give up. It was a free day, after all, so anyone who had anything important would persist. Which they did.

Hungary and Austria shared a wordless conversation, one they'd had often enough that it didn't need to be spoken aloud anymore.

It's probably about him, isn't it?

Of course it is. He's either in trouble or the economy has collapsed somewhere, and I don't think we'll be so lucky.

Can't you answer it...?"

I dealt with that guy full time until that wall came down, so you answer the phone.

Austria sighed and went to answer the phone. Hungary followed to offer moral support and also to watch his expressions.

First, he picked up the receiver gingerly, holding it slightly away from his ear as he replied, just in case the person at the other end was shouting. Apparently not, because his face looked subtly relieved and he brought the receiver closer to his ear.

"Good morning to you too, Spain. Oh, is that so... I see, I'm terribly sorry. I hope there wasn't any permanent damage? I really can't imagine where he would have gotten something like that from... oh my, green and glowing, really? He didn't actually manage to drop it on anything on anyone did he? Oh, that's good at least. Ah, well, that would be good, I know blood stains are a pain to remove," At Hungary's raised eyebrows, Austria glanced up at her with a tiny reassuring smile and continued: "I'm glad you got the gun away from him, that Italy of yours has a... formidable temper. Can't think where he got it from, really... yes yes, just send him back. Goodbye."

He put the phone down and sighed, though it was more put-upon than truly aggravated.

"So, what did he do this time?" Hungary asked impatiently, eager to hear the entire story.

"Well, you know how Prussia has been watching that American children's program about the juvenile turtle monsters? And how Spain and Southern Italy recently acquired some pet turtles? Apparently this morning--"

So, it turned out to be a pretty typical morning after all. It was terrible what sort of things a person could get used to, really.


	9. U - Unicorn: England(/implied someone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are rules about this ok?

The majestic beast stepped out into the meadow. Its snow white flanks glittered with dew that had brushed onto it from the trees, the same dew that was caught onto every blade of grass on the meadow, causing it to glitter as if it had been scattered with diamonds. The unicorn crossed the meadow on soundless hooves, hardly disturbing the grass and leaving no footprints on the soft ground. Unhurriedly, the creature bent its head to drink from a spring, the single horn protruding from its forehead touching the water.

Suddenly, there were sounds of branches being pushed aside and undergrowth being trampled on. It was not a loud sound, but it seemed so in the quiet of the forest. The unicorn raised its head warily, its nostrils flaring and its entire body tensing, as if preparing to either flee or attack.

It did not, however, even as the man reached the meadow, stopping just beyond the edge of the trees. He raised his arms imploringly and took a step closer, his mouth bent into a tremulous smile... which fell as the unicorn skittered away, lowering its head in warning.

Something very small fluttered towards the unicorn from the man's shoulder, making a round around its head before settling to hover in the ear right in front of its face.

"Charles, stop being so unreasonable," the fairy chittered reprovingly. "Can't you see how unhappy you're making the poor thing," and at that it pointed towards the man whose shoulders had slumped in defeat.

"There are rules," the unicorn replied sternly, turning its head away from the man. "Besides, he smells of... that thing." its nostrils flared again and it shuddered with disgust.

"Oh, I know, it's terrible," the fairy sniffed, before showing its tiny sharp teeth in an expression that was not a grin. "But, you know, He'd be ever so upset if we hurt the Thing, and mother is so very fond of him."

"I do not answer to your mother... nor your father," The unicorn said implacably.

"Ah, well... do what you want... but he does have sugar cubes," the fairy remarked noncommittally.

The unicorn's nostrils flared again, but this time it was subtly different.

The man's green eyes brightened hopefully and he raised a hand with several pieces of glittering sugar on it.

"Charlie...?" he asked tentatively.

The unicorn sighed. "Oh, well, perhaps just this once..." it muttered, already drawn towards the sugar.

The fairy just shook its head. Even unicorns weren't quite what they used to be...


	10. V - Voyeur: Sweden/Russia (+ Finland. Being the titular voyeur)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There is sex. Beware.

The night was uncommonly warm; the heat of the day not easing even when night fell. Karelia slept on her side, dark hair spilling over her back, the pale shape of it barely visible in the gloom inside the cottage.

Tino lay on his back, unable to sleep. Finally he got up, quietly so as not to wake up the older woman. She'd told him not to go out, said it was too dangerous. But something out there was calling to him, and it was too hot to sleep anyways.

The air outside was just as heavy, clouds hanging low to the ground like the lid of a cauldron. Somewhere far away there was a low roll of thunder, and Tino stopped. It was like he could feel the gathering electricity in his fingertips, the still landscape holding it's breath with him.

He was going to the stream nearby, flowing through a forest clearing. The water would be cool, and perhaps then he'd finally be able to sleep...but there was someone at the clearing already.

Tino froze as he saw the tall figure, and instinctively ducked out of sight into the bushes lining the clearing. He squinted, trying to make out the man's features. The summer night would have been light otherwise, but the clouds complicated things. Nevertheless, his still pose and the angular shoulders, those were familiar, and Tino almost called out... almost, but not quite.

They'd been making trouble for Karelia lately, him and Russia, and Tino... he wasn't sure what exactly that meant for him. Or what it would mean, whichever one of them won. He dreamed of it sometimes, strange figureless dreams that left him feeling unsettled.

Rather like he felt right at that moment.

What was Sweden doing? It was almost as if he was standing guard... and Tino had scarcely had time to form that thought when another figure emerged from the forest, on the other side of the stream.

"G'away," Sweden said, in a voice that was a soft, low growl. It sent shivers down Tino's spine, but Russia just stepped into the water, wading slowly to the other side. Now that his eyes were getting used to the gloom, Tino could see he was smiling, despite the dark trail of blood down his face. It was an eerie sight.

"G'taway, ya lost," Sweden repeated, not moving from his post.

Russia laughed, a melodious sound that seemed at odds with the situation. He held out his hands, showing they were empty.

"For now," Russia said simply, still smiling. It was that particular smile that made him look hungry, Tino could tell even in the low light.

"But I'm not here to fight... perhaps," Russia continued softly. "I believe we made a small bet, a while ago?"

"F'get it, T'was a mistake," Berwald mumbled, but he didn't take out his sword when Russia stepped right up to him, close enough to touch.

When Russia spoke next, his voice was a strange mix of compassionate and patronizing.

"You're a strange one, wanting him for yourself, and yet... here you are, standing next to the table but not reaching out for the food? Why?" At the last, his tone had shifted, sounding now oddly childish, like he was truly puzzled.

Tino wondered where this was going, and made sure to stay quiet in his hiding place.

Sweden didn't answer either, and Tino could only see from his vantage point that he was shaking his head.

Russia laughed softly.

"A strange one indeed. Will you rather satisfy yourself with an enemy?"

"Never said... why're ya doing this?" Sweden asked, and Tino was wondering the same.

Russia shrugged, his face unreadable.

"Perhaps I have nothing better to do, at this moment."

"Liar."

"So? You're no better. You annoy me, standing apart as if there's no sin in your heart... when anyone with eyes can see it's a lie. Can he? Is that why he flinches away from you, I wonder?"

All the while, Russia's tone remained smooth and calm, while Tino could see that Sweden's head was bowing, his shoulders growing even more rigid.

"B'... be q'iet," he whispered, and it was barely audible to where Tino was crouching.

Russia just looked at him, eyes frank and open.

While they'd been talking, he'd drawn closer to the Swede, who seemed to have frozen into place, as if he was under a spell. Russia raised one hand to touch the other man's face, trailing it down slowly, along his neck and lower. Tino couldn't see what he was doing, but Sweden's breath was becoming choppy and ragged.

He found his own wasn't entirely steady either, and there was a strange fluttering in his stomach. This was... he shouldn't be watching this. But they might notice him if he tried to flee. Surely that was a valid reason, wasn't it?

Russia was laughing again, soft and low. Finland could have sworn he was shivering, and his eyes were wide and bright in the gloom. Like a cat might look at a mouse, the thought flitted through Tino's mind, scattered by the next words.

"You could even pretend I was him, couldn't you? Don't we look a bit alike, me and your precious--"

"No!" Sweden snapped, shoving the other so hard he stumbled to the ground... except Russia caught his foot before he fell, dragging Sweden down with him. He must have been surprised by that, Tino assumed, because Russia managed to roll them around.

Now Finland could only see the back of his head, but he could imagine the victorious expression. And he could see how he was... moving his hips. Tino could feel his face heating up, with embarrassment and something else he shouldn't have been feeling, surely.

"Now will you quit being so difficult?" Russia asked conversationally.

Sweden didn't answer, merely squirmed in a way that might have been him trying to get away or... not. Tino supposed he could understand if he weren't.

"Ah, that's better!" Russia said delightedly. "I'm glad, after I went to all the trouble of arriving... prepared,"

What did he mean? Well, he didn't appear to be wearing trousers under his long coat and... oh, that. Tino stared, his mouth falling open, forgetting he could have looked away. Sweden was making a sound that was almost a whimper, and even Russia's breath had gone a bit choppy.

Tino shifted restlessly where he was kneeling. His legs were going numb from holding the position, but he hardly noticed. Absently he raised a hand to his mouth, biting on it to make sure he made so sounds himself. Thought he wondered if the two would even notice, they were getting so loud themselves.

"This is getting... ha, boring," Russia hissed, "perhaps I'll rest..."

True to his words, he stopped moving, leaning forward. Sweden panted, sounding desperate.

"Please," he whispered, but Russia shook his head.

"No," he said tauntingly.

But he didn't resist when Sweden pushed him into the ground, and... oh, perhaps that had been his intention all along.

Tino could see Sweden's face properly at last now. His brows were drawn together, a grimace on his face as if he were in pain, except Tino knew it wasn't. He was bent over Russia, slamming into him again and again and--

Tino gasped into the hand still over his mouth, and used the other to push up the hem of his shirt. He was glad he hadn't bothered with trousers, couldn't have opened the laces with his hands shaking so much. He closed a hand around his cock, eyes closing with relief, and then opened them almost immediately.

No sense missing the end after he'd gone this far, right?

So he watched and listened, as Russia whispered a string of words in his own language, and as Sweden grunted and moaned, as wordless as usual. And then his hips stuttered forward one more time and his brows scrunched up and then drew apart, mouth opening in a silent gasp.

Tino wasn't sure if he made any noise himself when he came, his concentration elsewhere. He hunched down afterwards, breathing hard and not daring to look up. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. When he finally did look up, Russia had disappeared and only Sweden was left, kneeling in the grass of the clearing.

His shoulders were slumped, like he'd been defeated instead of Russia. Something cold-hot twisted in Tino's stomach at that. Tino himself only had an inkling of what it was like to be turned about by Russia, to be subjected to his particular mix of charm and poison. So far, he'd been shielded from it, by Karelia and by Sweden.

Someday, they might not be able to, and Tino wasn't sure why that though gave him an odd thrill, half fear and half something else. But Sweden, he'd always looked so upright and rigid, and now there was something fragile about him.

Without thinking about it more, Tino got to his feet, stumbling on his numb legs. He only realized it had started to rain as he had to raise a hand to brush away wet hair from his eyes. Stopping before Sweden, he shivered slightly in the cooler air.

"Hey," Tino said, and Sweden looked up, eyes wide. He looked almost scared, for the first time Tino could recall. He tried to smile reassuringly, hoping it came out as such.

"I...um, it's raining," Tino said, and then flushed at his own stupidity. "I mean, you shouldn't stay out here. Karelia might not like it if you come to the house, but if you don't mind the stables...I mean, sorry about that but she might really be startled otherwise." He realized he was babbling and closed his mouth tightly, lest anymore words bubble out.

Sweden licked his lips, and then nodded slowly.

"'s fine," he said after a long pause, and Tino grinned, relieved.

"Follow me then, it's not long."

They walked the short distance in silence, though Tino could feel Sweden's gaze boring into his neck. Which really wasn't too different from the usual, except at the stable door, he clasped Tino's wrist, letting go almost immediately when he got his attention.

"I..." Sweden looked guilty, Tino realized. Guilty and worried. "If ya saw 'nything..." He lowered his face, staring at the stamped earth at their feet.

"It's fine," Tino said, and Sweden looked up at him, blinking. Tino hesitated, and then raised a hand and pat the taller man's arm. Couldn't reach his shoulder yet, he was too short. Kinda embarrassing, that. "Didn't see anything too upsetting, so don't worry about it," he added with a nervous little laugh, and then walked away fast.

Except he only took two steps, and then turned around after all, head raised high.

"Cause, you know, I'm not as easily spooked as you think, or he does, get that?"

Sweden looked at him, expression unreadable, and then he shook his head. In the shadows, it was impossible to tell, but there was a strange softness there, a not quite smile.

" ' see," was all he said.


	11. W - Winter: Sweden/Finland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the last of these. I think. (going to post the ones from other fandoms separately)  
> Warning: Evil fade to black

A lonely figure is walking along the road, shoulders hunched against the wind. The snow is falling in large, damp flakes that have already coated his fur coat under a thick layer. All he can hear is the whistling wind, and all he can see is the white all around, in the air and on the ground.

If it weren't for the forest, he might walk off the road entirely by mistake. There are no other tracks, and the ones behind him disappear fast. For all the traveller knows, he might be alone in the world.

But Sweden knows he's not.

Eventually he arrives at his destination, a simple log cabin, big enough for one person. The porch is covered, but the wind has blown the snow into a small pile against the door nevertheless. He knocks on the door but no one opens it so he kneels down, brushing snow aside to peer under the doormat. No key.

He stands up, seemingly considering his options. After some more looking around, he finds the key hidden into a lantern hung from the roof of the porch.

He'd asked Tino, once, whether it was safe to keep it outside, where anyone could get it.

Tino had just gave him a strange look he couldn't quite read, and then laughed nervously, saying: "Oh, everyone does it..." and then changed the subject.

Berwald wondered if Tino knew he'd meant to ask for a key of his own... maybe he did.

Later, when he'd been drunk, Finland had mumbled "You know, when he's really drunk, Ivan can't find it. The key I mean." He giggled drunkenly, and added. "Well, sometimes I can't either, but can't have everything, right?"

Remembering it now, Sweden shakes his head ruefully. Can't have everything indeed.

He doesn't use the key, just leans onto the wall beside the door and waits. Out of the worst of the wind, it's oddly peaceful. The rest of the world seems even further away. He closes his eyes and just listens to the muted howl of the snowstorm.

Eventually, there is human noise in it, a heavy sled skidding over snow, someone cursing as it gets stuck. Sweden can make out the heavy footfalls of a workhorse as well.

He opens his eyes to see them appear from behind the curtain of snowfall. Both the thickly furred horse and its owner are coated in the snow much worse than Sweden himself, but neither seems concerned over it. Tino's collar is coated in frost from his breath, as are his eyelashes. The few strands of hair visible from under his hat are damp from sweat.

When he glances up from detaching the horse from the sled, Tino finally notices Berwald. Or perhaps he noticed him earlier already, because he doesn't seem surprised, just nods and smiles.

"Need h'lp?" Sweden asks, but Finland shakes his head.

"I've got it. I'll just take the horse to the stables and brush off the snow. You could go inside and start the fire if you'd like," he adds as an afterthought.

Later, they sit next to the oven, a pot of coffee warming on it. Tino's eyes keep flickering covetingly that way, like he's afraid someone might steal the coffee away if he didn't look at it every few minutes. Berwald supposes it was a pretty good choice of a gift.

Finland says as much when he takes his first sip of the black beverage.

"Yes, this is the stuff, none of that chicory rubbish...I'd almost forgotten what real coffee’s supposed to taste like," he says, and takes another sip, with the look on his face almost... Berwald glances away from him.

"Sometimes this rationing business kinda gets on my nerves, you know. I hope we don't have to put up with it that much longer...everyone is working really hard, so it'd be nice to see some benefits for it." Tino remarks.

He goes quiet then, face set in a slightly pensive frown. Berwald looks at Tino carefully, cataloguing what he sees.

Finland looks tired, still a bit too thin, but there's a healthy colour in his cheeks. His hair is still uncommonly short, but the burns on his head have already healed. He still limps noticeably, but he didn't seem pained earlier.

"Ya look better," Berwald says on impulse, and Tino blinks at him, before smiling amusedly.

"Really? Imagine that."

They look at each other, and this time it's Finland who looks away. He nods towards the window, where the snowstorm is still knocking against the pane.

"Guess you're staying the night?" Finland asks bluntly. His gaze, glancing at Sweden from the corner of his eyes, is more subtle. One corner of his lips twitches upwards, just a little.

"We'll have to share, since I only have the one bed in the house," Tino says it quite seriously, but Berwald can tell he's still smirking on the inside.

"No probl'm," he answers, equally seriously.

Tino gives up and smiles then, and it's different from when he was younger. Less reckless than his battlefield smile and less innocent than the timid one he wore on other occasions back then. This smile is banked, not dishonest, but rather private, and a bit mischievous.

"Don't look at me like that," Tino tells him, narrowing his eyes, which are still sparkling. "I know you're thinking something sappy when you do."

He stands up, holds out a hand.

"Come on, on weather like this it's no use staying up."

"Ain't 't?" Berwald asks, raising an eyebrow at him, at which Tino just rolls his eyes.

As Berwald lets himself be lead towards the bedroom, he tries once more to decide if he actually misses the old Finland, the one who could be said to be his in any way. If he's perfectly honest, some days he does, and it makes him feel faintly guilty every time.

And then again... some days he feels guilty because he isn't sure he'd change a thing, even if he could.

Here and now, Finland sighs, giving Berwald a fondly exacerbated look, and then pokes his forehead with a finger.

"Stop thinking so much now," he commands, and perhaps Berwald might tell him to make him. But he knows he doesn't need to.


End file.
